


Succumbing

by RogueLioness



Series: The DA Alternate Universe Chronicles [5]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Angst and Feels, Blood Drinking, Blood and Gore, F/M, Horror, Out of Character behavior, Psychological Trauma, Vampire Bites, mention of dubcon, tagging just to be safe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-29
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:29:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27268024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RogueLioness/pseuds/RogueLioness
Summary: Rasha Lavellan wants something, and she has a plan to get it.  But she can't seem to decide if she's the hunter, or the hunted...
Relationships: Female Lavellan/Solas, Lavellan/Solas (Dragon Age), Solas (Dragon Age)/Original Female Character(s)
Series: The DA Alternate Universe Chronicles [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2036974
Comments: 20
Kudos: 26





	1. Fathom

Rasha stands over the body, her pen and pad in hand as she examines the body. Whoever the poor sod is, he’s slumped against the wall, his eyes shut, an expression of unbridled terror on his face, his hair still in the careful slicked-back style, not a strand out of place.

If she didn’t know better, she’d think he was just a man who’d imbibed one too many and was sleeping the booze off in this dank, dark alleyway.

“What do we have here?” Cassandra, her partner, walks up next to her, a hand on her holster as it always is.

“Human male, late twenties I’d guess. Time of death unknown-” she gets down on her haunches, snapping on a pair of gloves as she does so. “Body’s cold,” she brusquely states, gently tugging his eyelids. His eyes, that would have once been rather a pretty shade of blue, are now white and rheumy. “Been here several hours, I reckon.”

“Cause of death?’

She can smell the blood that she can’t see. It makes her stomach growl, makes her chest clench tight with hunger and yearning. How long has it been since she last-?

“He doesn’t fit in,” her partner grunts, “too fancy for this alley.” It’s true - his well-pressed houndstooth jacket and the starched wine-colored cravat at his throat look incredibly out of place in the dirt-covered, piss-scented cobblestones of the dark passage. “It looks like another drunken buffoon got lost on his way home, stumbled into bad company,” Cassandra exhales. “Still, better to be cautious, I suppose. I’ll radio headquarters, see if there’s a missing person alert out.” Rasha waits till her partner’s back is turned before continuing her examination of the man. Her instinct is to check the neck - and she does - but the wound she’s expecting to see isn’t there. 

Strange. 

She pulls open the man’s coat, and the scent of blood gets overwhelming. Her tongue goes dry, and she can feel her teeth ache. Clenching her jaw shut, she covers her nose with her elbow and breathes in, letting the bitter scent of felandris sear her nasal passages and block out the temptation. When she feels more grounded, she turns her attention back to the body. There’s a large patch of a very suspicious shade of maroon near the right collar bone, which- she frowns. It looks like- well, like what she thinks it is, but she’s confused. She’s seen  _ his _ work before, and she knows how he operates. It’s been a while, true, but- surely he isn’t so  _ sloppy _ ? Has she been mistaken? Maybe this is just a mugging gone bad, like Cassandra seems to think. She pushes the jacket off the shoulder, sucks in a sharp breath.

“Cassandra,” she calls out urgently. She can hear the heavy footsteps before her partner squats next to her. “Look.”

There, marring the perfection of the soft linen shirt, are two perfectly neat, perfectly round holes.

“Andraste protect us,” Cassandra whispers, her hand wrapping around the pendant that always hangs from her neck. “There’s a bloodsucker in Haven.”

“What do we do?” Rasha asks. Her heart drums sluggishly against her ribs, which- is concerning. The lethargic beat only serves to highlight the emptiness of her stomach. When was the last time she ate-?

Her mouth is too-dry again, and she can’t stop staring at the red stain.

Cassandra spurs to action. “Call it in. Get Krem and his crew to take the body in, we’ll have Dorian do the autopsy.”

“What about the-” she jerks her head towards the dead man. “You know?” 

Cassandra exhales. Her shoulders slump, and in the dull orange light of the streetlamp, she looks haggard. “I don’t know.”

In truth, neither does she. If this isn’t the work of the-  _ creature _ \- she’s after, then... what is she supposed to do? She didn’t go through the effort of forging documents and credentials and placing herself in right in the center of the very situation she’s avoided for all these years for nothing, damn it. Her gums throb viciously. She can make out the thin green lines on the back of Cassandra's hand, the veins that stand out like beacons. Fuck, she’s so hungry, her stomach feels like a festering pool of acid. She needs to get out of here before she does something- “I’ll let Dorian know he’s got a new shipment coming in,” she abruptly moves away, ignoring her partner’s disgusted huff.

She rests her forehead against the car’s roof, lets the cold of the metal seep into her. Part of her is surprised at that, that something is colder than she is. But that’s why she came to Haven, isn’t it? Because of all the ice and snow and frost? So she could hide in plain sight as she followed the trail, so she could finally enact the cure the Witch of the Wilds promised her?

_ Slay the creator, _ even now, she can still remember the woman’s strange yellow eyes, the haunting echo to her words,  _ and end the curse _ . 

Is it a curse if it has made her this way? Can something that was made be unmade? What even were the woman’s motives, that she would offer advice so freely?

She hates not knowing.

Her breath quickens - an instinctual habit - but it doesn’t fog the air the way Cassandra’s does. The way it used to. The way it’s  _ meant _ to.

She’s going to be discovered. Or worse, she’s going to cave in. That would be bad. Very bad. What is she thinking, testing her control like this? This is madness. She should run. She should run and hide, and- this was a mistake, she shouldn’t be here, she-

Rasha takes a deep breath. It doesn’t do anything for her, but the action is familiar and soothing. In. Out. In, count to seven, out.

She can do this. She can  _ do _ this. She  _ can _ do this.

She has to do this. What other choice does she have? Leave? Where would she go? Wycome hasn’t been home for years, and she’s tired of living in the forests, tired of the loneliness that’s sunk into her bones, the hollowness in her stomach that never goes away, never, no matter how much she gluts herself on poor substitutes, but she’s not- she will not be-

“Are you well?” Cassandra’s voice jerks her out of her thoughts.

Rasha flashes the raven-haired woman a weak smile. “Just concerned, that’s all.”

The older woman’s face softens. She places a hand on Rasha’s shoulder. “We’ll find a way,” she vows. “We’ll stop this monster.” In the distance, she can hear the sound of sirens, the heralding of the protectors and the defenders. The bold and the brave. The champions of the just.

Rasha lets out a bitter, mocking chuckle. She knows they can’t help. Only a monster can stop a monster.

She catches sight of her reflection in the glass window. It’s faint, but it’s there, and it does nothing to reassure her.

_ You are no monster _ , a voice whispers in her head, a voice that isn’t her own.  _ You can never be one. _

She freezes. Her fists clench.  _ Get out of my mind _ . 

_ Do you really want me to, vhenan _ ?

_ Don’t call me that. _ She tosses the keys to Cassandra and gets into the passenger seat, shrugging when her partner raises her brows in surprise. Cassandra gets behind the wheel and turns the key. It stutters several times before flaring to life.

She can’t afford to drive with distractions, can she?

There’s a soft chuckle in her mind, a familiar, once-beloved sound.  _ Is your anger at me, or yourself, vhenan? As I recall, it was you who said you wanted to be with me  _ **_forever_ ** _. _ Rasha closes her eyes. Memories flash behind her closed lids, of a time when the forests were not so dark and sinister, of pale, soft fingers trailing up her arms and up her neck and fisting into her hair as her mouth was devoured-

She inhales, slow and deep. Replaces those images with ones of her reality. Of cowering in the shadows, watching the golden sun from the chill darkness of caves, stealing what she needed in the dead of night. Of the way she is constantly, endlessly cold, within and without. And the loneliness.

Even now, it makes her catch her non-breath.

_ You do not have to be alone, ma lath _ .

Oh, but she does. 

_ I’m waiting for you. _

He can wait all he wants. She knows what she has to do to gain her freedom, and nothing will stop her from her quest.

A long silence, but she knows he’s still there. Then, just as Cassandra pulls up to the station-

_ Ir abelas _ .

It troubles her more than it should.

* * *

The bed is lumpy, the pillows even more so, but what does she expect from an inn that rents rooms at twenty copper a day? The thin woolen blanket scratches at her toes. Someone next door is fighting, their voices raised, the woman hissing at her partner to  _ keep it down, there’s a cop next room over, or d’you want to be locked up again? I won’t bail you out the next time-  _ she sighs and shuts her eyes, tries to go to sleep.

Rasha doesn’t dream. Or, rather, she doesn’t let herself. Dreams are painful; they taunt her, mock her with things that she wants but cannot have. Not since- she yawns. The scar on her neck pulses and throbs.

She sinks into the darkness.

_ He takes her hand, raises it to his lips, presses an open-mouthed kiss to her skin, light but searing, and for a brief moment she feels the scrape of his teeth. She shivers. _

_ “Do you like that?” _

_ She meets his eyes, blue and silver, like lightning in the daytime skies, and nods. _

_ He drags his teeth along the skin of her inner wrist, nips at the vein that carries her pulse. _

_ “Ma lath,” she whispers, and he draws her to him, their mouths meeting in sweet, languid desperation. _

_ “Vhenan,” he moans into her mouth. Her heart thrills at the sound.. The glen is quiet, and serene, and she can’t hear a sound, not even the rustle of leaves. In this place there is only the two of them, lover and beloved, and if she could she would freeze this moment and store it carefully, like one of those snowglobes she’s seen in the markets of Val Royeaux. _

_ He pulls away from her, and she is bereft, even though he stands in front of her, even though his hands are on her hips, and his gaze is on her face. _

_ “I wish we could be together. Forever. Like this, just you and me.” Her wish echoes all around them before settling, like a shroud, over the two of them. _

_ He cocks his head. She doesn’t know what he’s thinking. “Do you mean that?” _

_ She frowns. Of course she does. Why would he think otherwise? They’ve been together for years now, have they not, has she pressed her naked body to his and welcomed him into her, has she not given him the entirety of her heart? “Do you even need to ask, ma sa’lath? I love you. Intensely and immensely. Is that not why I am here with you? Any price would be worth paying if it meant eternity with you.”  _

_ Something in his gaze shifts, turns darker, more predator. It makes her pulse beat harder, faster, prickles the hair on the back of her neck. She tries to step away, but his hand digs into her flesh and holds her still. The other goes to her neck, sliding upwards into her scalp, and grips her hair at the root. She hisses with the way the pain brings desire, and goes slack with expectation. _

_ “Do not struggle,” he says. His voice is a growl, the words striking her skin and leaving goosebumps in their wake. “It will hurt more if you do.” What does he mean? She wants to ask, but finds herself unable to do so, unable to even protest. _

_ No matter how many times she re-watches this part, no matter how hard she tries it to be, it’s always in slow-motion. One moment there’s the admittedly pleasurable pressure against her scalp, the next, a sharp, jagged pain, his teeth tearing and ripping her neck, so vicious she can’t even cry out. She can’t move, doesn't dare to, what little function left of her brain is dedicated to self-preservation, and instinct tells her to remain still, so she does. She thinks he mumbles something against her neck, but she can’t make out the words.  _

_ He pulls away. _

_ She feels something warm, nearly hot, trickle down her shoulder, almost like a lover’s caress. She reaches up slowly, weakly, and touches it. Frowns at her red-stained fingertips. They smell like copper. She looks at him. Why, the question is on the tip of her tongue, but it doesn't fall. _

_ “Ir abelas,” he says. His eyes are dark now, a shade of black she’s never seen before, like pitch coating the night sky, not a trace of white to be seen. Crimson stains his teeth and lips and his mouth is twisted into a snarl. She would have crumpled to the ground if he hadn’t been holding her. “Ir abelas.” he says again, before lowering his head to her neck again. She doesn’t understand. Everything is bleaker and darker and it’s like something is sapping the color from the landscape around it, turning it mirthless grey. _

_ Then he starts to suck, and she knows she is going to die. She can feel it keenly, felt the blood leave her body with every mouthful he pulls from her. Feels her toes grow numb, then her calves, then she can feel nothing below her waist, and the world is shrinking, the green calm of the glen having given way to something more twisted, more sinister. The trees shake violently as their leaves laugh. The air is filled with the scent of copper, thick and cloying and unpleasant. _

_ The world around her is death, and Solas is its harbinger, its herald, its champion. _

Rasha’s eyes fly open, panting even though she does not need to. Her chest rises and falls, and she’s uncomfortably aware of the action in a way she never was when she was truly alive. She shifts, placing her bare feet on the ground. The tile would be cold to anyone else, but her soles seem to meld with it. 

She’s still so fucking aware of how she’s breathing. It’s disconcerting.

She should stop - she certainly has no requirement for it - but she can’t seem to. It’s an illusion she grips tightly to - if she just pretends to be  _ normal _ long enough, hard enough, she can make it come true

How did that popular phrase go?  _ Fake it till you make it _ ? Surely it applies to her, too.

Doesn’t it?

Fucking void, she can’t seem to get her skin to warm up, no matter how hard she rubs her arms. 

_ I can still be mortal. _ It’s the first lie she told herself when she rose from death, and it’s the one she’s held onto the longest.

To his credit, Solas hadn’t tried to disabuse her of the notion when she awoke by his side. He’d tried to explain to her, in his careful, cautious way, that she could never again return to the woman she had been the day before, but she hadn’t wanted to believe him - and who could blame her? She’d scoffed, fled to Wycome the first chance she got, ran back to her family. To Deshanna.

Guilt explodes in her chest, so quick, so fierce that she presses a hand to her sternum, half-afraid her ribs will shatter with the force of it.

Her fault. Deshanna always had keen eyes that missed little. It was Deshanna who noticed the way Rasha’s skin was always cold, the way she would vomit immediately after every meal, even her favorite five-cheese lasagna. It was Deshanna who pointed out how pale she was, whose sharp gaze noted the way Rasha no longer breathed.

The last time she saw Deshanna, her all-but-in-name mother had been carrying a dagger, the blade of it forged from tempered silverite.

It had left scars, both visible and unseen.

_ Self-defense _ , Solas had tried to soothe her when she returned to him, her hands stained red, gut full but mind crazed.  _ Hunger _ , his voice had been sorrowful as she stuck her fingers down her throat and tried to expluse the blood she’d ingested.

It had not worked. She hated the way her mind sang with the satisfaction of a satiated stomach.

_ Monster, monster, monster _ , her brain chants. She can’t take it. Making her way into the ridiculously tiny bathroom, she carefully avoids the mirror and turns the tap on, splashing water onto her face. The water isn’t as cold as she needs it to be, but it will have to do. Palms on the vinyl countertop, Rasha hangs her head over the sink, and sighs heavily. She isn’t going to get any more rest tonight, she can feel it. The hunger is worse, an acidic burn at the base of her throat and the pit of her belly that’s threatening to get out of control. 

She needs to feed.

_ Monster _ .

She returns to the room. The dinky clock on the side table proclaims 3.30 in bold green. If she’s quick, she can sneak out into the backwoods. There are rams there, she knows, nugs and rams and druffalo. They won’t satiate her, but they will help the thirst recede. That’s all she needs. Just a few more days of keeping the thirst at bay, till she can reach him. Till she can complete her quest.

She pulls on her running shoes - the ragged, dirty pair with the worn-out tread - and an equally ratty faded black hoodie, and slips out of the window.

_ You’re not a monster, _ the voice is there in her head again, sad and sorrowful.  _ Let me show you. _

Rasha swallows, pulls her hood up higher and doesn’t reply.

What else can she be?


	2. Flicker

_Rasha waits outside the station doors, folder with all those forged documents in hand, trying her best to walk the balance between inconspicuous and authoritative. She’s not doing a great job, she thinks - she’s getting a lot of curious glances. A qunari with an eyepatch walks past her, stops abruptly, then turns around to face her._

_Fuck. She’s trying really hard not to growl at him the way her instincts are screaming at her to._

_“You here for someone?” he asks, amiably enough, but his gaze is so like Deshanna’s, sharp and knowing, plucking every detail it can from where it lands._

_She nods stiffly, tucks the folder under her armpit, and pretends to rub her hands together. It does nothing, but it’s not meant to - it’s meant to put mortals at ease, to assure them that she is like them. Regular. Safe. Normal. “Yes,” she gives him a small, cautious smile. “I’m supposed to meet Seeker Cassandra?”_

_“Right.” The smile he gives her is genuine. “You the new rookie, right? From the Free Marches?”_

_“From Wycome.” The best way to lie, she’s discovered, is to stay as close to the truth as possible. “I’m Rasha.” She sticks a hand out for him to shake, realizing too late that her skin is always unnaturally cold, and he- well, he looks too sharp and too intelligent to not notice it._

_He takes her hand. His skin is so hot it feels like it’s scorching hers. She wants to yank her hand away. She wants to press herself against him, soak up every last drop of that heat, let it immolate her. “Iron Bull. Well, it’s The Iron Bull, but most folks ‘round here just call me Bull.” To her utter shock, he sandwiches both her hands between his, and attempts to warm her up. “You’ve been standing out here long?”_

_“For more than a few minutes, yeah.”_

_“Any reason you’re out here, and not in there?” There’s mild curiosity in his tone._

_She shifts uncomfortably. “I, ahh. I was told to wait for Seeker Cassandra to show me to my desk?”_

_“Doesn’t mean you can’t come in, rookie. Cassandra’s a tough cop, but she won’t want you to freeze to death. Come on, now. Let’s get you inside.”_

_T_ _hat- that counts as an invitation... right?_

_Rasha follows him, every inch of her clenched tighter than a fist as she carefully places a foot through the doorway, half-expecting a barrier to resist her intrusion._

_There is none._

_Her sigh of relief is genuine. Bull grins, gives her a friendly clap on her back, and points out where the coffee machine is. She thinks she mumbles out a thanks, but she isn’t sure. Her focus is on the tendons of his neck, jutting out in stark relief, highlighting his so pristine, so beautiful carotid. She wonders exactly how his skin will give way under her teeth - will it be like a hot knife through butter? Like a dagger through silk? Or will it offer resistance, force her to clamp her jaw down deep into his muscles, till her mouth is filled with his flesh?_

_“Uhh- you okay there, rookie?” Bull’s crouched to her level, his lone eye darting between hers. The sight of the light grey-brown gaze snaps her out of her reverie. “You’re not coming down with anything, are you?”_

_She forces out a laugh. “Sorry, just a bit-” she stumbles, searching for an appropriate excuse, “intimidated, I guess.”_

_“Never seen a qunari before?”_

_“No,” she shakes her head. It’s the truth._

_“Well, I’m not gonna eat you- not unless you ask,” he winks at her. She has to almost physically tamp down the urge to burst into hysterical laughter. “I get it, though. You have any questions, feel free to ask, okay? Just don’t be a dick about it.”_

_“Thanks,” her smile is making her cheeks hurt. She waits for him to leave before letting her shoulder sag, all but fleeing to the women’s room that is, mercifully, empty. Her reflection in the mirror is faint, and flickers with the indecisive bulb hanging over her._

_The phantom in the glass stares back at her, dark pits where eyes should be. How is she supposed to do this? Her control is thin, tenuous, held in place only by the morality of her rational mind, like a sheet of paper protecting the floodplains. But amidst so much temptation, how long can it remain? Even now, she has to fight the snarling, feral, vicious part of her that wants to chase down The Iron Bull and grab his horns and rip out his jugular so his life’s blood will soak her-_

_She squeezes her eyes shut, grits her teeth so hard her fangs nicks her gum and fills her mouth with a bitter, briny, metallic tang. It is not blood, but a mockery of what it should be; still, the taste is enough to ground her._

_Follow the plan, she reminds herself. Follow the plan and find Solas. Kill him, and I will be free._

  
“Rasha.” There’s a hand waving in front of her. She blinks, confused, and the next second Cassandra’s face comes into focus. “Wool gathering, were we?”

She grins sheepishly. “Didn’t get much sleep last night,” she lies, biting the inside of her cheek.

Cassandra’s face softens with understanding. “It was a difficult night for me as well,” she agrees. “But we have work to do. Dorian has sent the autopsy report.”

“That was quick.” Rasha flips it open. “Any i.d. On the victim?”

“Gascard DuPuis. Orlesian of noble birth, but current address is in Kirkwall.” Cassandra’s brows knit together. “Why was he in Haven?”

“Not for anything good,” a deep rumble on their left catches her attention. Bull is striding towards them, his face grim. “Your man had a reputation, ladies, and it wasn’t a good one.”

“What do you mean?”

“Rumor has it DuPuis liked to dabble in the darker arts,” Bull hands Cassandra another folder. “Women tend to go missing wherever he’s around, only to turn up later dead. And missing body parts.”

“Maker’s breath,” Cassandra exhales, eyes widening as they scan the sheet of paper. “How was he never caught?”

Bull shrugs. “He’s got a title, and the means to pay people off. Explains why he was in Kirkwall, though. That place is more corrupted than all of the Black City.”

Rasha still can’t seem to process the new information. Her mind is racing too fast for her to discern individual thoughts. “So this Gascard… he was evil, then?”

“Oh, yeah. Rotten to the absolute core, that’s for certain.”

And now he was dead. She gnaws on her lip. What did it _mean_? Was that why Solas had gone after him?

 _You are not a monster,_ his voice is soft this time. Soft, like how she remembers it, the way it had been when she first fell in love with him. 

He’s lying, though. That, she knows. She carries carnage in her mouth. She reads through the report, a roiling heat bubbling up in her chest at the atrocities she finds laid out in ink. Here, legible in neat blue script, is evil. When she gets to the last line, she doesn’t find any sympathy for the dead. “He was dangerous. We’re likely better off without him,” she remarks in a low voice. 

Bull nods his head in agreement. “We’d have lost a lot more folks if the bastard had continued to run around,” he idly scratches the base of his horns.

Cassandra sighs. “Be that as it were, we are still dealing with a-” her eyes scan the area, making sure they aren’t overheard, “a vampire. Haven cannot be safe unless we deal with it.”

“How are we supposed to do that?” Her neck is itching terribly, but she doesn’t dare reach up to scratch. Someone could notice the scars there. Sherolls her neck, swallowing when Bull follows the motion. His gaze is so much like Deshanna’s... then Cassandra clears her throat, and the moment passes.

“Not a clue, rookie,” Bull grunts, grimacing and shifting his weight from his left foot to his right. “I have a bad feeling we’re just going to have to follow a trail of the dead.”

“Maker help us all,” Cassandra murmurs.

* * *

“Another one?” she asks Cassandra, her focus on the still-slick roads. It’s snowing, but under the darkness it takes on the appearance of ash. Rasha shivers. There’s something so bleak about driving on empty roads lined by tall, gloomy trees that look like forbidding sentinels. Their branches sway and rustle and shake in an almost malevolent fashion. She thinks she hears them whisper to her, but whether it’s a warning or a welcome she can’t tell.

“Yes,” Cassandra sits tight-lipped next to her. They fall into uneasy silence until a ramshackle building appears in the distance. It seems to be some kind of old, dilapidated barn, the roof a patchwork of crude repairs. The door, a new, shiny metal, looks strangely at odds with the rest of the building. “In there,” Cassandra directs, and Rasha pulls up outside the building. It’s already been cordoned off with police tape. 

Bull meets them at the entrance. “We’ve got a survivor,” he states without preamble. “She’s the one who called it in.”

“Why was she even here in the first place?” Rasha looks around. There’s not another soul around for miles, and this doesn’t look like the most pleasant of accommodations.

Bull’s jaw clenches, and his eyes turn flinty. “She didn’t come down here for a picnic, rookie.”

She stares at him, at the way his nostrils are flaring, and realization dawns over her. Giving him a quick, curt nod, she steels herself before walking in through the door that’s now hanging off its hinges. Even so, she’s not prepared.

The scent of rotting leaves and wood is all but drowned out by the thick, cloying, inescapable tang of coppery gore. There is a mild underlying hint of antiseptic and bleach, which, judging by the look on Cassandra’s face, is all her partner can smell. It makes her jealous. 

All she wants to do is weep. It’s like walking into a banquet hall only to find it empty. Her stomach is growling, quietly, but still very much unhappy despite the liquid already sloshing around within it. If she’s not careful, she’ll regurgitate all of the ram from that morning, and if she does, who knows what she might do next? Especially when Cassandra’s fear and anger is making her blood hum so prettily? Or when Bull is standing by the doorway, his back to her, a broad, large, open target, one who is so unaware of the desperation running through her veins?

Rasha shakes her head, discreetly tucks her head into her elbow and floods her sinuses with the ever-present felandris there before turning her attention back to her surroundings. It stings, the bitter, acrid odour, coats the back of her throat with its unpleasantness, but it grants her the reprieve she so badly needs.

The barn is outfitted like a butchery. Brass hooks hang from iron beams spanning the ceiling. The floor is covered in plastic tarp. And in the very center is a large steel table, so similar to the ones Dorian has in his lab. There’s a blonde woman in one corner, her back to the table, shaking violently despite the blanket covering her shoulders. Someone is soothing her - Krem, she recognizes, and leaves him to it.

The closer she gets to the table-

Oh, she can smell it. Loud and lush, like the dark sherry wines she once loved, She wants to lap it up, let it linger on her tongue, find every nuance to it. That blood, it is a beautiful orchestra, and she wants to hear the symphonies it plays.

Rasha dry-heaves. Once. Twice. Claps a hand over her mouth, and unwillingly swallows her meal, the spew clotting and coating the back of her throat.

She’s so, so hungry, and there is such a decadent meal a mere ten feet from her. It’s a lure, she knows. A deliberate taunt. A test of her rapidly fraying control. Solas can be subtle, but this is apparently not one of those times.

He wants to break her, but she will not yield. 

The scent hits her again. She retches. Hacks repeatedly before she spits out a mouthful of black, congealed slime. She stares at it in mounting horror. Is that what’s in her stomach? What is it? How has she never known- the sight of it makes her bend over once more and gag, her chest and back heaving with the effort of keeping everything in - even though now she’s not sure she wants to.

She can hear the slide of boot heel on the floor, senses that someone is coming her way. _Fuck_. Rasha uses her foot to quickly cover it up with the surrounding dirt, till it looks like just another one of the many strange stains scattered across the floor.

There’s a hand on her shoulder, gripping tight. She breathes out through her teeth, and in through her nose, registers _Cassandra_ . She stiffens. Cassandra suddenly smells _wonderful_ , of rose attar and musky sweat, of dark chocolate and adrenaline. Her mouth waters and aches with a heavy, intense, _vicious_ desperation. She has to swallow carefully to prevent her fangs from nicking her tongue. “You’ll get used to it,” her partner mutters. “Comes with the job.”

Without any other choice, she lets Cassandra guide her back to where the body is. Because there is a body, she knows. That scent has to come from somewhere and given how thick it is - this close to the steel table it’s almost a physical thing on her tongue, sweet and rich and hedonistic - she very much doubts the owner is alive. The odour assails her, nearly overwhelms her. That coppery tang attempts to seduce her into submission. Her mouth feels too-sharp. Her lips twitch against her efforts to keep them closed.

She stops breathing and prays - to whom, she’s not sure - that no one notices. It’s the only way she can do this.

He’s slumped over the table, his face hidden. Not that she cares how he looks, if she’s being honest, because her focus is on his back. There are four long, angry claw marks scoring the length of his back, shoulder to hip, vicious and jagged and deliberate and precise, so deep that she can see past the ripped skin, past all the exposed musculature to the ivory of his spine peeking through. In death, blood no longer seeps from the wounds, though it has before - there’s ample evidence of it in the puddle at his feet, a deep red stain that sadly is tainted by the unpleasantly sharp ammonia of urine.

 _Such a waste,_ she mourns to herself. 

“What’s her story?” she asks her partner, taking a step closer to better examine the dead man. Shaggy brown hair, skin still quite tanned despite the grey pallor of death, calloused fingers with dirt under the nails. A farmer, then, one with a terrible hobby.

“Susan Lanhart. She’s identified the man as Johnathan Mettrel. Says he’s a neighbor to her parents. She was on her way home to visit them when he offered to give her a ride. Of course, she didn’t suspect anything so she accepted.He knocked her out as she was about to get into the car. She doesn’t know anything more than that - she claims she woke up here in the corner, and Mettrel was already dead by then. She’s got some blood on her skirt, but Bull thinks they’re from when the murderer attacked Mettrel.”

There’s no wound, not like the kind she’s searching for. “So she was on the table when Mettrel was attacked?”

“Yes. Krem said he’d bagged up several… tools… that Mettrel had laid out. Clearly he intended to harm Susan. I only wonder how many he has targeted before tonight.”

Rasha shrugs. “Hard to say. Out here, in these rural parts? Especially if he’s plucking his victims from the city and bringing them here…” She doesn’t add the fact that she can smell the rusty scent of old blood in the walls and the wooden beams on the ceiling, or that the misshapen fungi in the corners are ones that grow only where death lingers. Maybe later she will mention, in passing, how the soil on the west end of the field looks like it has been dug into many times over.

Right now she just has to work on control. The temptation of flesh - in the literal sense, not the way the Chantry preaches - is growing ever stronger. She can see the stringy tendons and ligaments coated with congealed blood. Her kind of spaghetti, she thinks, with the best kind of sauce. Is there a way she can suck them clean? Squeeze the shredded musculature for the taste she yearns for?

 _That cadaver will not sate your hunger, ma lath._ The whisper in her mind carries a rueful amusement, but it shakes her out of the rapacious fog.

“How did no one notice?” Cassandra murmurs.

She thinks, _someone did notice_. And dealt with it, too.

Even if he is still taunting and tempting her with _how_ he did it.

“No sign of- well, you know,” she taps two fingers to her neck in a mimicry of puncture marks as she straightens. She isn’t surprised. If Solas had fed just yesterday, he likely will not need to for another day or two. 

“But it is the bloodsucker. I know it,” Cassandra runs a hand through her hair. “I can sense it.” She begins to pace up and down.“Two kills in two nights. What are they doing? What do they want?”

He’s toying with her, she knows. He’s trying to break her down. To break her moral shackles, as it were.

And she begins to fear, just a little, that the plan she is following was never her own.


	3. Fall

Two days of nothing.

Rasha knows he’s planning something. She can sense it. The tension hangs over Haven - over  _ her _ \- and she feels like she’s caught in a web and all she can do is wait for the owner to turn up. Sighing, she waves to Krem and Dalish before turning down the dirty, slush-covered cobblestone path.

Her stomach is hollow and throwing a tantrum about it, but what can she do? After the incident in the barn she’d returned to her unwelcoming room and regurgitated every last bit of the ichor that was in her stomach. And since then, no matter what she hunts - druffalo, nug, even that aging halla that couldn’t move as fast as the rest of its herd, it won’t sit in her belly, not when she’s surrounded by the scent of the meal her body  _ truly _ craves.

Even thinking of hunting in the backwoods again has the entirety of her insides recoiling, her intestines heaving with nausea.

The walk is excruciating. With every step she takes, she can sense the pulse of the bodies nearby,  _ thump, thump, thump _ , reminding her of the nectar they bear within that’s causing the sound. 

She’s been so good. Surely just  _ one _ taste wouldn’t hurt-

An inebriated human staggers towards her. She pays him no attention as she passes him by, but she freezes at the sensation of a too-warm hand grope and lightly knead the flesh of her ass. She growls as she whirls around, the sound sending the man staggering backwards, the leer on his face shifting to one of fear. 

Why does she try so hard to return to a world that would treat her like this?

Rasha grabs the man’s hand, the one that performed the abhorrent action, and twists it so hard she can hear the bones of his wrist shatter with a sickening, if satisfying,  _ crunch _ . He howls in pain and fury, and sinks to the ground, broken hand splayed out like a misshapen claw against his chest. The way he stares up at her - fear and dread and horror -  _ should _ make her feel fiendish, but a sense of power washes over her, the knowledge that he is no match for her an exhilarating thrill that floods through her veins. A second later, his eyes roll to the back of his head and he passes out.

_ Fuck _ . Has she killed him? Surely she can’t have, she only- she drops to her haunches, and presses her fingers against the man’s neck. His skin is rough but warm. The pulse beats a rapid staccato. Adrenaline courses through his veins, a citrus burst to hop-tinged plasma.

It’s such a beautiful song. 

She can’t seem to pull her fingers away.

He’s so warm. She wraps her hand around his neck. It fits so beautifully there, her thumb highlighting his jugular. She leans in, mesmerized. 

_ thudthudthudthudthudthudthud _

Just a sip. He wouldn’t even be aware of it. One sip, and it would be enough to douse the burn in her gut. She’s earned that much, surely. She wants this. She needs this-

Somewhere to her right, a door squeaks as its hinges protest.

Rasha scrambles backwards, the bloodlust dispersed from the fear of getting caught. What had she- she stares at the man. He’s still out.  _ Fuck _ . She’d come too close. Too close. She needs to get out of here- she takes to her feet and flees, running as though the ogres of the void hound her heels.

* * *

She peers out of the window in the morning, and instantly knows she has to take the day off. She makes a quick call to Bull, claiming an upset stomach, and laughs weakly when he teases her for her weak constitution. 

She does have a weak constitution, true. And she fears it’s getting weaker by the minute.

The blinds are down, and the curtains are closed shut, but she’s still uncomfortable. Beyond the window, it seems as though all of Haven is milling about - unsurprising, since it is a rare day when the sun smiles with all its golden glory here in the Frostbacks. Even the couple next door, who usually spend most of their time getting drunk and fighting, are silent today.

Rasha paces. Six steps to the window. Turn. Six steps to the door. Turn. Her fists clench and unclench. Her stomach is gurgling. Bubbling. The hollowness there has given way to a chasm, deep and yawning. She can feel the stiffness in every muscle as they whine from a lack of sustenance. As she looks around the meager space-  
  


the cherry shavings of the potpourri

garnet plastic poinsettia in a rusted vase

scarlet matchbook case crushed and flattened

crimson. ruby. scarlet. 

_ blood _

exquisite. luscious. sumptuous. 

_ blood  
  
_

It presses down on her, the chant.  _ Red-red-red-red-red-red-red-red _ . She lets out a cry and covers her ears, but it offers no succor. 

Her gut churns.

She manages to drag herself to the bed. Flops bonelessly onto coarse cotton sheets. She can smell pine cleaning solution, pancakes, and the acrid ash of desperation. The housekeeper was rooting through her belongings again. Rage bursts in her chest. How dare she? This is  _ her _ room, those are  _ her _ things. She’ll teach that puny little human a lesson, tear her spine through her ribs- before she’s aware of it, her hand’s pressed down on the door handle.

What is she  _ doing _ ?

She doesn’t know.

She’s so hungry. She could eat the world, she thinks, and still have room for more, and more, and more.

_ Vhenan, _ oh, his voice, she wants to cry with how concerned he sounds.  _ Vhenan. _

_ What? What do you want? Haven’t you tormented me enough?  _ She falls to the floor, palms pressed tight against her temples.

There’s a long silence. She whimpers. Shifts to try and find a better position, but there is none. It’s hopeless. She’s hopeless. Maybe she should run out into the sunlight, end this agony, this ineffable state of being. What is she even fighting for? 

_ Ma lath. Stay with me a little while? _ The words stroke her mind, dulling the sharpest points of her craving.  _ Tell me the story of how we first met? _

She curls up by the door, knees drawn to her chest, her face hidden by the well of her arms. She drifts back to years, decades ago, to a humble hermit who strode through the trees of the Planasene as though he’d planted every one. The carpet of wildflowers, marigold and alyssum and sweet pea. The rough bark pressing into her back as he told her stories of rebellious qunari baker girls, of desperate, doomed dwarves, of unwashed humans clashing steel. She remembers shy kisses under willow boughs, recalls the way his pale skin glowed under the moonlight. 

And how she loved- loves! - him, urgent and fierce and reckless.

Rasha weeps, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs. She aches in a different way now, bittersweet anguish having replaced the raw hunger. She yearns for him. She always has. But if he means to coax her into stilling her hand, into abandoning her quest… she cannot, no matter how much her traitorous heart demands it.

There’s a soft sigh in her head, so soft she almost misses it, little more than an exhaled breath filled with pining. She waits for him to say something, but there’s only silence.

Her phone rings. She welcomes the sound. It is Cassandra; she’s so sorry, she knows Rasha is ill, but if she’s better could she come to the station? Lisette was injured when she broke up a fight near the tavern, and they’re short-staffed for the night. She knows she should decline - if there’s another crime scene to be dealt with she knows she might not have the restraint - but she is as loyal in undeath as she was in life, and so she agrees.

Mercifully, the sun’s set when she steps out of the inn. For a moment Rasha stands where she is, under the wooden awning, closes her eyes and tips her face to the sky. The air, though rapidly chilling, is still warm, and smells of loam and clay. Someone down the road is baking cookies. The Tabris family has just started a woodfire, hickory and cherrywood, the grey-black smoke creating a thin, hazy trail as it rises.

In that moment, time hangs like a perfectly shaped droplet falling through the air before it hits the ground.

Then she can hear the distinct sounds of a scuffle down one of the myriad alleyways that run criss-cross through Haven, and the illusion is broken. With a sigh, she sets off, following the sound. The closer she gets to it, the darker it gets around her, till it feels as though the shadows are pressing against her like an overly affectionate cat.

A woman stumbles out of the mouth of the alley, one shoe missing, an ugly rip in her elegant green cardigan at the seams. Her brown hair is wild and disheveled, her eyes widened in fear, breath pouring out of her in quick little pants. She sways from side to side before all but falling on Rasha, who has to grip the young woman by the shoulders to keep her from collapsing.

“Please,” the woman sobs, “please, help me. There’s- in there- he had a knife-”

And then it hits her, a violent, loud slap on her in the face, the tidal wave of  _ that _ luscious scent.

Her mind goes blank. Everything around her is in sharp, clear hyperfocus. Time slows in a way that she can’t explain, but she’s certain it does. She can see the way the woman’s lips are cracked. Can smell the attacker, rust and stale ale and filth, as he makes his escape. She knows, with complete, absolute certainty, that the passage in front of her is now empty. She knows that all the passers-by have dispersed, the sight of her uniform a particularly unwelcome sight in this part of Haven.  
  
In less than one of the other woman’s heartbeats, Rasha has them enshrouded by the darkness of the rank, slippery alley, caring for nothing but the thundering pulse so weakly covered by skin, revels in the way it vibrates agitatedly against her lips, the woman’s cries having been neatly silenced by the application of a hand.

There is nothing but the thirst. No other knowledge but the hunger. No other need, but the one that has her mouth already opening in gleeful anticipation.

Her teeth pierce skin and meet flesh, and the sensation - so decadent, so depraved - has Rasha shuddering. Her eyes roll back and she moans, the sound little more than a gleeful little whine. The first pull of liquid nearly undoes her with pleasure - all she can taste is the salty sweetness, the bitterness of cortisol, the tang of epinephrine. It has her floating. Soaring, even. For the first time in- she doesn’t know how long, really, time’s lost all meaning for her in the days after her undeath- she feels  _ alive _ . Like she’s whole again. 

She’s discovered the meaning of life, and it is the succulently rich ruby elixir, and she exists solely to obtain and gorge and glut herself on as much of it as she can.

_ More _ , the thought thunders through every single brain cell.  _ moremoremoremoremoremoremore- _

“S-s-stop,” a tiny, weak voice pleads. “Please.” The weight in her arm grows heavier. There’s a painful whimper.

Rasha pauses.

“Oh,  _ no _ !” 

The woman hits the sludge-covered ground with a  _ thud _ that sounds like a minor explosion to Rasha’s ears. “Oh,  _ creators _ , no no no no no-” Her appetite sated, she’s now horrifically  _ aware _ of the atrocity she’s just committed. The brunette is barely breathing. The side of her neck is now an open, jagged wound. Her larynx has been crushed. There’s a sickening hissing sound as air exits what’s left of the trachea. Blood drips sluggishly onto the cracked cobblestones.    
  
Despite her terror and the enormous self-loathing, she’s still tempted at the sight.

_ What have I done _ ?

She’s frozen in place as the sound of the woman’s heart struggles to keep pumping. It is as futile as a lit match in a tempest; it simply sputters out without hesitation or complaint. Rasha’s own heart rumbles so hard it crashes against her ribs, the feeling eerie and satisfying all at once. 

_ Monster.  _

The mangled edges of the wound are crusting over slowly. Bruises in the shape of fingerprints cover the woman’s wrists, her clavicle, her jaw. An errant thumb having pressed too hard has resulted in a black eye.

_ Monster. _

Shame and guilt and contrition and self-hatred entwine to form a rusty ball of barbed wire in the very center of her chest.

_ MONSTER. _

She is, she is, she is.

Dread and a sudden sense of self-preservation cause the more primal of her instincts to take over. Distractedly licking her lips clean of the blood that coats them, Rasha glances down the alley. No one’s been alerted. She’s still alone.

She drags the limp, lifeless body to the end of the darkened corridor, tucking it carefully in the small gap behind the large dumpster. She hates that she’s doing this, this additional injustice to a being that absolutely did not deserve it, and she’s barely aware of the tears that are causing her vision to blur. She steps back to make certain it’s hidden. The smell emanating from the crate is so abominable, she’s certain no one will notice the added odor of a decomposing body. 

She can’t seem to stop shaking.

_ Monster _ .

Her hands clench into fists, a vain attempt to steady herself. She- she can’t deal with the turmoil, she doesn’t have the luxury of time. Cassandra is expecting her at the station.

She doesn’t want to go.

Someone will know what she’s done. Bull will take one look at her face and see the guilt there. He’s too perceptive, even with that lone eye. He’ll know, and he’ll tell Cassandra. They’ll come after her, they’ll think she was behind the murders-

_ you murdered a poor, innocent girl _ the hissing, spitefully gleeful voice isn’t his but hers, taunts and mocks and tints her vision pale and has her fingers curving into talons.

She should- she should hide. Somewhere dark. No one will find her in the dark- she half-turns intent on running to someplace, anyplace that doesn’t know her name.

A thought has her stilling. If she doesn’t go, Cassandra will get worried. Cassandra, brave and good and strong, will come looking for her.

She can’t let Cassandra down, not when her partner has been nothing but kind to her.

Rasha’s eyes burn, but her stomach is still and steady when she reaches the station. It feels like she has maggots under her skin, crawling through her flesh, burrowing deeper and deeper and eating into her bones.

She should be worm food. Like Deshanna. Like that poor woman behind the dumpster will soon be.

Maybe they are the lucky ones. They do not have to endure, like she does. Perhaps she should confess to Cassandra, turn herself in, let them burn her at the stake or under sunlight, allow them to end her existence. 

The silverite blade rests heavy against her ankle.

Cassandra is waiting by the doors, the set of her face grim and unyielding. “We have to go,” she states. “A Magister from Tevinter has gone missing. A witness spotted him near the Tunnels. We don’t have much time.”

She nods, listlessly follows her partner to the squad car.

The Tunnels, more affectionately known as the Cultist Tunnels after the mysterious human-sacrificing sect that once lived there, are a maze of passages beneath Haven. It’s far too easy to get lost within them, and those foolish enough to venture into its depths are never seen again. 

Rasha’s concern is not the Tunnels. It is what is within them. She knows  _ he _ will be there. This is a part of his plan, she slumps back into the worn cloth-covered seat in weary resignation, he intends to turn this into a confrontation. The Magister is the bait, Cassandra has taken the lure, and now she can do nothing but wait for the inevitable.

There are already several squad cars at the location by the time they pull up. Bull gives them a brief rundown. “Our man goes by the name Sethius Amladaris. Member of the Magisterium. Supposedly in Haven to visit the library-” his tone is clear that he doesn’t think that’s the real reason, “was last seen walking up to the Temple of Sacred Ashes.”

“Only Chantry officials are allowed there,” Cassandra frowns. “When was this?”

“Two days ago. His assistant, Calpernia, filed a missing persons report yesterday.”

“We should split up,” Rasha offers, unholstering her pistol from her hip. “We can cover more ground that way.” It’s best she goes alone. She can sense an end approaching, one way or another, and she doesn’t want to risk Cassandra when she meets it. 

“That’s too dangerous,” Cassandra shakes her head.

“We have the radios,” she reminds her partner. “We should get to Sethius as quickly as we can.” 

“Rookie’s got a point,” Bull interjects before Cassandra can refuse. “Those tunnels are endless. The more ground we can cover, and the faster we do it, the better.” His gaze, pointed and cutting, is too knowing. She fights the urge to squirm, swallowing the confession that’s suddenly on the tip of her tongue.

Cassandra lets out a disgusted huff, but nods. Rasha prepared to enter the western entrance, tying the hempen guide rope around her waist. “It’s easy to get lost in there,” Bull murmurs from behind her. “Don’t think I need to tell you to be careful.”

He makes it sound like a goodbye. Perhaps it is one. “Thanks, Bull.” He nods, pats her shoulder. A sudden well of tears prick her eyes. She’ll miss this, she realizes with a pang, her companions with their easy banter and their caring, kind ways. For a second, Rasha doesn’t want to go forward; she wants the mundanity of filling out paperwork and bickering by the coffee machine and laughing at the way Chief Cullen turns red each time Hawke swaggers into the station.

Then she remembers the hunger, the way she’s looked at Bull and Cassandra in her darker moments, how the temptation is always there, just microns beneath the surface. They’re not safe around her, never will be.

She steps through the iron gates.

The tunnels are dark, so dark her torch struggles to illuminate even the ground beneath her feet. Water drips from a leak somewhere, a strangely haunting  _ plip, plip, plip. _ She can smell fungus and guano here, feels unknown spectres run their ghostly, unseeable hands up her spine.

The scar on her neck is so warm.

Darkness, she knows, is a living, breathing thing, harboring secrets and sins that mortal eye cannot - should not - glimpse. Why else would the living fear it so? Why else would the end of life be signalled by an unstoppable, encroaching blackness that took in its greedy fist all of one’s senses?

But then she awoke, and found herself part of it, just another secret in its embrace. She could not return to the light. It was beyond her reach.

So she undoes the knot. The rope drops to the ground. She doesn’t look back.

The high-pitched ringing in her ears, the sound she associates with silence, grows fainter and fainter the deeper she keeps walking. The air here is musty, black mold and death, the stone beneath her boots cold and slippery from the ice that covers it.

It could be minutes, hours, days even, since she first entered the Tunnels. Time is an unnecessary construct here in the darkness. She stills, sensing she’s no longer alone, then takes a step forward. She doesn’t need a torch to know he’s here, or that there is someone else with him.

“You came,” Solas says. The sound is a velvet welcome, a caressing stroke down her neck.

“You knew I would.” 

He  _ hmms _ in agreement. “And you are alone.”

“You could not have expected otherwise.”

He smiles. His teeth are impossibly white in the charcoal blackness. “So, what now? Will you kill me,  _ vhenan _ , with your blade? End my existence in a vain attempt to regain yours?” He moves till he is in front of her. “Poor little love,” he reaches out and traces a finger over the bruise-like bags beneath her eyes, “so lost.”

“So desperate,” she whispers, taking a half-step towards him. “I pay for your crimes, and I cannot bear it.”

His brow falls, and his face twists with guilt. “The fault is mine,” he cups her cheek. She leans into the touch, neither too-hot nor too-cold. It’s perfect, as it’s always been. “I feared losing you. I was a coward. Of everything between us, that is the one thing I regret.”

“And if you could, through some impossible means, be transported back in time to that moment,” she searches his gaze, “what would you do?”

He doesn’t look away, doesn’t hesitate in his reply. His thumb strokes her skin. The jitters in her chest dissipate. “Rasha, I would do it all over again.”

Something flutters in her, a flap of butterfly wings, before it settles. “You know what I did,” the tears finally fall freely.

“I saw,” he presses his lips to her forehead. “You do not have to worry. Your Bull’s opinion of you will not change.” He gives her a small, tender smile.

Rasha shakes her head at the mention of Bull, even though she’s glad. Their goodbye will not be tainted. But she is still  _ guilty _ . She pulls away, one arm wrapped around her stomach, the other held up to keep him at bay when attempted to follow. “I am- she was innocent, Solas, and I-” she shakes her head, “I’m a monster. I- those people you went after, they were evil at their core, but I-” she bends, retrieves the silverite dagger, and hands it to him, hilt first. The blade gleams in the space between them. “You know what to do,” she murmurs. He stares at her, aghast. “You  _ must _ ,” she presses. “It’s the only way-”

“It is not.” When she scoffs, he wraps his fingers around her wrist, using the lightest of pressures to disarm her. It clatters on the cold stone, quickly forgotten. “It was a mistake, a grievous one, but what could you expect when you treat yourself so poorly?”

“I tried!” she hisses, trying to break his grip on her. She doesn’t succeed. “I can’t go back to living the way I used to. I  _ won’t _ . Why won’t you just-”

“Just as the wolves hunt the weakest halla,” Solas interrupts her, his face so calm and serene, his gaze deep and intensely willing her to  _ believe him _ , “so too can we stalk those who blemish the fabric of society. Your thirst does not have to be a hardship,  _ vhenan _ . It can be a purpose, a calling, should you choose to see it that way. And if you do, you will never again have to be alone. You asked for forever. You can have it.”

His words are so tempting. Her heart yearns for it, craves to be with him the way he’s promising. How long has it been since she deprived herself of his voice, his skin, his companionship? All those years she spent in the woods, and what has she gained from it? What good has it done her? 

Still, she’s so afraid. “What if I fail again?” A small part, deep inside her mind, is screaming at her to strike him, to cover her ears and not let him sway her with his honeyed words. But she has been alone for so long, and her love for him has always been a bright, desperate thing, and now that he is touching her, holding her, she does not think she can let go again.

“I will be here to guide you,” he vows, gently guiding her to face the man trussed up. The human’s eyes burn, like magma, with a vicious hatred. “Sethius Amladaris. To the world, he is a magister from Tevinter. They do not know he is the High Priest of Dumat. Do you know why he was here,  _ vhenan _ ?” Solas pulls her back to his chest, and rests his head on her shoulder. “He intended to assassinate the Divine. He would sow dissent and hopelessness among the faithful.  _ Ma lath _ , what would you have me do with him?”

Rasha stares at the man. His mouth is an ugly snarl, his features scrunched up in sneering contempt. She can sense his menace; it churns within him and wafts outwards in angry waves, and knows Solas speaks the truth.

She knows, if she asked him to, Solas would let him go.

He is offering her a choice. Opening a door for her that she did not think existed.

If she were outside, with Cassandra, perhaps she would be tempted to let him go. She might say,  _ he might have evil plans, but he has not carried them out, so we cannot condemn him for deeds not committed _ . 

But she’s here. In the darkness. With a man whose silver-blue eyes can see into the very core of her, who knows her evils and her sins, who accepts all that is ugly and foul about her. Here, she does not have to hide. Does not have to pretend to a civility that no longer exists. 

She might be a monster, but she is  _ his _ monster.

Her stomach rumbles with anticipation. Her lips twist up into a wide, wide smile.

It is not a kind one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we come to the end! Happy Halloween!


End file.
